Collision Course (2 page)

RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 5:05
P.M.

“Don’t mind the cold, my dears! The stimulation of physical exercise will soon warm your bones!”

Major Mountjoy’s ample belly wobbled with each step as he set up the ringtoss game on a wide part of the A-Deck promenade.

Sophie Bronson and Juliana Glamm exchanged dubious glances. How much physical exercise could they expect from Major Muttonchop, their dinner tablemate and quite possibly the most boring person aboard the RMS
Titanic?
Sometimes it seemed as if he intended to spend the entire voyage tracking them like a bloodhound. Sophie and Juliana were equally determined to avoid the man.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Sophie announced with a sigh. “Those rings aren’t going to toss themselves.”

She caught a sharp look from her friend, who was an earl’s daughter, and more accustomed to
the old-fashioned ways of society. Sophie was an American girl, very much in the new twentieth century. She got this from her mother, who was modern in her thinking. Too modern, some would say. But that was another story.

“Quite right!” the major blustered through his bright-red side whiskers. “The key to success at ring toss is a combination of arm speed and keenness of eye. There is no strength involved; it is pure skill.”

Sighting like a marksman, he leaned forward and launched his ring. It landed on edge and rolled like a hoop, coming to rest against the half wall that semi-enclosed the promenade. Had it not been for the abutment, it would have wound up in the sea.

“Nice shot,” Sophie commented blandly.

Juliana took a ring and awaited her turn. Major Mountjoy did not move, but stayed frozen in his follow-through position.

“Are you all right, Major?” she asked solicitously.

“I seem to have done myself an injury,” Mountjoy replied in a strained voice. “It happened during the Boer War, in a cavalry charge outside Jo’burg. I was in charge of a brigade then, you see….”

It boggled the imagination, Sophie reflected. Even doubled over in pain, Major Muttonchop could still come up with a long, dreary story. All the way
down to the hospital on D Deck, he rambled on about his exploits in South Africa. His posture may have been locked at a right angle, but his mouth was in perfect form.

“Shed no tears for me, my dears,” he called as they made their escape. “I shall be right as rain in no time. I’ve had this crooked back since that cavalry charge outside Jo’burg….”

The story restarted, this time aimed at Dr. O’Loughlin, the
Titanic
’s surgeon.

The giggling began on the elevator.

“Sophie!” Juliana hissed. “It’s not seemly to laugh like a hyena in public.”

“I’m not laughing,” Sophie gurgled, barely under control. “I’m shedding tears for the major.”

That set Juliana off. And by the time the girls let themselves into Juliana’s stateroom, B-56, they were both shedding tears for Major Muttonchop — tears of mirth.

“If he got the wonky back on a cavalry charge,” Sophie managed, “think of the wonky back on the poor horse that was carrying him!”

“How long has he been pleading for the honor of teaching us the fine points of ringtoss?” Juliana added. “And then, on his very first throw —”

She fell silent, frowning. The suite was as beautifully
appointed as any chamber in any manor house in England, with elegant furniture, silk wallpaper, velvet drapery, and a vaulted ceiling. Every detail was perfect down to the tiniest tassel on the Persian rug in the sitting room.

So why was a stack of blankets piled haphazardly on Juliana’s canopy bed?

“This isn’t the level of service one would expect of the White Star Line,” she said disapprovingly. “I shall ring for a steward at once.”

“Julie,” Sophie chided, “why drag some poor fellow away from his tea break? In half the time it would take for him to come calling, you and I could set everything right.” She bent down to the captain’s drawer built into the bed and pulled on the handle. Her brow furrowed. “It’s stuck.”

She grabbed on with two hands and yanked with all her might. The chest lurched open, and she cried out in shock. There, his knees drawn to his chest in the tight space, lay Paddy Burns.

“I can explain —” he began.

“Paddy, what are you doing in first class?” Juliana blurted.

Paddy bristled, and Sophie could see why. Here he was, a stowaway, hunted by the White Star Line and, up until a few hours ago, ruthless gangsters. And
what was Julie’s reaction to finding him skulking in the furniture? What was his business amid the nobility and high society of the
Titanic
’s upper decks?

“Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d pop in for a spot of tea,” Paddy told Juliana in his best English accent, which wasn’t very English at all.

Sophie played the role of peacemaker. “She means why are you in her stateroom — and in the drawer, of all places?”

Stepping gingerly out of his hiding place, Paddy recounted the story of his visit to the brig, and how the laundry cart had provided his getaway. “By the time it was safe to climb out of there, I was all the way up on B Deck. I recognized your stateroom, and I thought —” He studied his battered hobnail boots on the lustrous carpet. “Well, miss, you were kind enough to help me the last time —”

“But how did you get
inside
?” Juliana persisted. “The suite was locked.”

“Ah, the lock.” Paddy produced a small hairpin from the pocket of his breeches. “Begging your pardon, but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

There was a click, and the door of stateroom B-56 swung wide.

“Julie?” queried the voice of the seventeenth Earl of Glamford.

“My father!” Juliana hissed urgently.

Before Paddy could respond, Sophie pushed him back down into the drawer and slammed the captain’s bed shut.

“Hello, Papa.” Juliana stepped into the doorway in an attempt to block the goings-on with her slender figure. “How was your card game?”

“Excellent,” he replied briskly, although his sour expression and the dark circles beneath his eyes told a different story. The earl’s fondness for gaming was exceeded only by his lack of skill at it. Nowhere was the situation more dangerous than on a long ocean voyage. There was an abundance of wealthy players and precious little else for them to do.

He looked beyond his daughter to Sophie in the bedchamber. “Miss Bronson,” he acknowledged with barely a nod.

“Your Lordship,” Sophie said, nodding back.
Uh-oh
, she thought. He seemed to be slurring his words. Julie had said that her father drank when he was losing at cards. More likely, he lost at cards because he was drinking. There was an expansive light-brown stain on his shirt. Liquor. She was sure of it.

His bleary eyes shifted from Sophie to the linens piled on the bed. “What on earth? Am I to assume
that the chambermaid left those? Ring for the steward at once! When I travel first class, I expect it to be so.”

“Oh, Papa,” Juliana giggled. “It’s but the work of a moment to set it right.”

“You forget your position, young lady,” the earl said sternly. “
You
are not the chambermaid. You are the daughter of a peer, and you would do well to remember it.”

Juliana dropped her gaze. “Is there something I can do for you, Papa? You don’t normally leave the lounge so early.”

“I came to change my shirt. I spilled — tea all down the front. Walmsley will be here directly to assist me.”

The girls exchanged a worried glance. If Walmsley the valet didn’t get here soon, Paddy was going to suffocate in that drawer!

“You are no longer a child, Julie,” the earl went on. “Do you think I don’t notice how you fraternize with that Alfie boy?”

“He’s our steward!” Juliana protested, shocked.

“I’m delighted that you know it. You are a member of a family that stretches back for centuries. Your position is hardly enhanced by such an acquaintance.”

Stung, Juliana dared to strike back. “I’m impressed that you observe so much from a card table in the lounge.”

Sophie was amazed that tradition-bound Juliana would stand up to her father in this manner. At that, she was less surprised than the earl himself.

He was just about to rattle the walls with his outrage when Walmsley let himself in, bearing a selection of fresh shirts from the laundry. The valet and his master retired to the other bedchamber and shut the door behind them.

In a flash, the girls pulled open the drawer and helped Paddy out.

“Quickly,” Juliana whispered. “You need to leave before my father finishes dressing!”

Paddy looked at her, eyes wide. “Your father is a proper piece of goods, he is! He speaks to you like no loving parent.”

“How dare you!” Juliana demanded. “He is protecting my reputation, as is his responsibility.”

“Is that how you explain it to yourself?” he asked cynically. “Maybe I wasn’t born in your mansions, but even a poor boy has a nose. I can tell when something smells, I can.”

“What are you insinuating?” Juliana’s voice grew shrill.

“To your high-and-mighty father, a junior steward is something to be used, like a cane or a footstool. All that blather about your reputation — what I’m saying, miss, is there’s something not quite right about it.”

“You are speaking of the Earl of Glamford!” Juliana seethed. “You will show him the respect he is due.”

“I am,” Paddy said simply.

“Would you two stop bickering?” Sophie broke in. “What are we going to do with Paddy? We have to get him out of first class!”

“I can’t go back to steerage,” Paddy told them. “The crew is looking for me there.”

From the master suite, the earl’s voice could be heard. “A fresh cravat, Walmsley. Before I miss another round.”

“We’ll find Alfie,” Juliana decided. “He’ll know what to do.”

RMS
TITANIC
F
RIDAY,
A
PRIL
12, 1912, 5:35
P.M.

Number 5 Boiler Room was so hot that Alfie half expected the wool of his steward’s jacket to burst into flames. He felt a wave of pity as he regarded his father, black with coal dust, glistening with sweat, plying his shovel. The stokers of the
Titanic
’s black gang lived and worked far below the waterline in a sunken realm of darkness and fire.

“Aye, boy,” John Huggins was telling his son. “Captain Smith gave the order this morning to light two more boilers.”

“I don’t know how you stand it, Da,” Alfie gasped, running a finger under his tight collar.

His father grinned. “I won’t lie to you. There are times when I go up on deck for a breather and I’m sore tempted to take a swim over the side, just to cool down. Then I remember how cold that ocean is, and I’m proper grateful to be hot again.”

“Why do they need more boilers?” Alfie questioned.

John Huggins shrugged. “If you want your horse to go faster, you give him a bigger pail of oats. If you want more speed, you pour on more coal. She’s making better than five hundred miles a day — well better, I’d wager. I’ve never worked a finer ship.”

Alfie looked nervous. “Five hundred miles a day! Is that even safe?”

His father laughed. “We’re in the middle of the Atlantic. The fish don’t care how fast we pass by. We’ve two more burners yet to light. I expect that order will come tomorrow sometime. There’s talk of making New York by Tuesday night, half a day ahead of schedule. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“I suppose,” Alfie agreed, bewildered. “But what’s the advantage of steaming into New York Harbor in the wee hours? The passengers will be asleep, and so will the city they’re landing in.”

“The newspapers, lad,” the fireman explained. “The maiden voyage of the greatest ship ever built! When the papers come out Wednesday morning, the name
Titanic
should be in every headline, in the largest type!”

“John!” came a bellow that cut through the clamor of the boiler room. A sailor appeared partway down
the ladder from the upper decks. “Is your boy there with you?”

Alfie moved to the foot of the ladder. “I’m right here.”

“A passenger wants you.”

“I’m off duty,” Alfie protested.

The man laughed. “Well, get back
on
duty. Miss Glamm needs a hat from the baggage hold.”

Alfie was mystified. “Miss Glamm? What hat? She has more hats than I have hairs on my head.”

“Or you can ignore her and hear about it from Mr. Lightoller. It’s up to you.” And he was gone.

“Better go, lad,” his father called good-naturedly. “You know these first-class ladies and their frills and fancies.”

Alfie walked forward, ducking through the hatch that separated the boiler rooms from the fireman’s passage that led to the holds in the ship’s bow. At the touch of a single button on the bridge, a watertight door would come down and seal that opening. There were fifteen such doors dividing the hull of the
Titanic
into closed compartments. This was the feature that made her unsinkable. In the unlikely event that anything pierced the double steel hull, the flooding could be instantly and completely contained.

In the passage, the temperature dropped appreciably. That, at least, was a relief. But the prospect of spending the rest of his afternoon off running hatboxes up and down the spiral staircase to Juliana was not very appealing.

As a stoker’s son, Alfie had met very few wealthy people prior to this voyage. It was astonishing how a change of hat could be so important to the captains of government and industry who determined the fate of the world. Giants obsessed with nonsense.

Still, he was puzzled that Juliana would call him rather than the steward on duty. She was a fancy lady, yes, but usually considerate. She knew that Alfie valued his visits with his father now that Mum had abandoned them.

He stopped in his tracks, suddenly overcome by loneliness for his mother. He felt no anger toward her. He even understood a little why she might run away from her drab life. Mum was a dreamer, her nose forever buried in a penny novel. What else did he expect from a woman who had named her only son Alphonse after the hero in her favorite French romance? To be the wife of John Huggins — who was away at sea far longer than he was ever at home — must have been unbearable for her.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself
! Alfie thought.
There are many whose lot is far worse than your own
.

After all, his scheme had worked perfectly. He had lied about his age and signed on with the White Star Line so he and Da could sail together. They were aboard the
Titanic
, the finest ship in the world. He was
lucky
.

He opened the hatch to the baggage hold and stepped inside, surveying the vast landscape of crates, trunks, and suitcases, all secured by netting. High society did not travel light. Some of the first-class staterooms had stashed as many as forty pieces of luggage.

At least he didn’t have to search for Juliana’s things. Alfie had spent a lot of time in the hold. He already knew where to find the Glamm baggage — closer to the spiral staircase, not far from the Astors’ vast collection of trunks and boxes.

He stiffened at the sound of a footfall close behind him. But when he wheeled around, there was no one there.

Frowning now, he faced up to Juliana’s hatboxes, stacked higher than he was tall. Now, which one of these could possibly be the one she wanted? And how was he to know, by the way?

A cat meowed somewhere behind the Astors’ luggage. Alfie knew there was at least one on board, kept in the stewardesses’ quarters. But when he looked behind the pile, there was no sign of the animal.

A deep unease gripped him. He had reason to believe that there was a criminal on board, a notorious murderer from long ago. Could this man be stalking him?

He felt hot breath on the back of his neck.